#its doing that same damn thing where it radiates to my sternum

[beaversatemygrandma]

Between slouching, sitting cross-legged, and heavy chest weights (aka boobs), by back is telling me to die. I really need to work on posture. Ow. Like Really Fucking Ow.

[fanfics-await-you]

I never know what to expect from him (Part 4)

Pairing: Poe Dameron/Female OC

Summary: Poe Dameron is your friend, your fellow resistance fighter, but most of all he's a goddamn pain in your ass. And yeah, maybe you're falling for him and well yes, it seems like he's falling for you too, but now REALLY isn't the time.

Tags: angst, a pair of dumbasses unnecessarily complicating things, minor ROS spoilers

notes: Thank you for coming back after so long. It took me far longer than I’d imagined to remember how to write again.

There’s gonna be another part simply because this ended up being so long lol. I’ve written like 80% of the final part so that should be up pretty soon.

Inspired by: @polkanote‘s post & @andhumanslovedstories‘s post

Word Count: 1,913

masterlist

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 5

Everything damn fucking hurts.

It’s my first coherent thought to rise from the white noise. Stars, I simultaneously need to puke and eat a whole battalion’s worth of rations. I don’t move yet, but allow the pain throughout my body to pulse and subside.

Why do I hurt so much?

I backpaddle through the haze. Exegol…Lightning…Crash…

Ah, yes. Breaking a 5-metre fall with your ribs does that.

The rest is a blank.

There’s a shout in the distance. Although it’s distant, the voice is somehow familiar, and I open my eyes. I’m greeted by the sterile whites of a med room and a flicker of fear blossoms in my chest.

Shit, was I captured?

I quickly look to my wrists for restraints but find nothing. The fear begins to dissolve, but I still have no clue where I am. I hear feet outside the room and attempt to sit u-

“Fuck!” The word bites but is barely audible.

I freeze for a second as I allow my body to air its grievances. Slower, I try again and manage to prop myself up against the pillows. The static is starting to clear, thank the Maker, but my memory is not returning. I guess I’ll just have to wait until someone turns up.

A woman speaks just outside the door, “Don’t wake her, Dameron.”

...

…He’s alive.

The door opens far too slowly to reveal a bare-foot and out of breath Poe. The sight of him clears the rest of the haze while a bright feeling bubbles its way through my chest.

We speak at the same time.

“You’re here.” I am elated that we have both survived Exegol, against the odds.

“You’re alive.” Poe’s voice, however, is barely a whisper, and his face is haunted.

He stands motionless in the doorway as I look at him puzzled.

“Of course, I am. You think a little fall could kill me?” I joke.

Poe still doesn’t move but simply repeats himself.

“Kess, you’re alive,” his voice is scratchy, like he’s been crying.

A chord of worry pulls in my chest, and all I want is to spring out of bed and wrap myself around him. Given the radiating pain still lingering in my chest, I go for the next thing.

I slowly reach out my hand towards him. “Poe? What’s wrong?”

He’s suddenly in motion. Poe takes my hand between his palms and sinks into the chair beside the bed all the while never taking his gaze from my face. As we stare at each other for a moment, I realise that he has been crying and my brow scrunches up in concern.

Gingerly, I place my other hand on his cheek and quietly ask, “Poe, tell me. What happened?”

Poe takes a deep breath and leans into my palm before lowering his gaze to our intertwined hands.

“I watched your X-wing explode into a thousand pieces with no sign of a parachute…Kess, we all thought you were dead,” he says quietly.

A metallic taste, like blood, settles in my mouth as the news of my apparent death sinks in. I want to respond but my tongue has gone dead in my mouth. I simply can’t find the words, so I squeeze his clasped hands and wait for him to continue. Multiple breaths pass before Poe’s ready to continue.

“I- I thought you were dead. I thought that after everything, we had won only for me to lose everything…for me to lose you.”

Poe leans forward to set his elbows on the bed and bring his forehead to rest upon our hands, as if in prayer. It’s only as I notice his hot tears trailing down our fingers that I realise that my eyes are stinging.

“And Kess,” his voice cracks at my name, “It was unbearable. I wanted- I wanted to burn down the entire First Order for daring to even touch you.”

I see Poe’s jaw clench and can feel the shiver of his hands against my skin. Again, all I want to do is wrap my arms around him but still, I let him finish.

Poe’s voice shakes, “But afterwards, when we returned in triumph, it became so much worse. Because I had let you go. Because it all meant nothing without you. Because I had failed you.”

We sit in silence for a moment as the weight of his words sink in. My tears finally fall and something like guilt is throbbing against my sternum. Thank the Maker, at least this time I know what to say. I bring the hand that had drifted to Poe’s shoulder up to his chin and make him lift his head to meet my eyes.

“Never,” I say, “in all the time that I have known you, Poe Dameron, have you ever failed me. Never. Do you understand me?”

He just shuts his eyes.

I speak again, more sternly, “Never, Poe, do you hear me?”

Poe doesn’t respond, but nods slightly.

“I’m sorry things turned out the way they did, but look at me, Poe. I’m still here.”

Poe just grasps my hand tighter.

I brush away the few tears that still cling to his face. “Poe.”

He finally opens his eyes and I whisper out the words, “I’m still here.”

Poe smiles slightly and the world feels a little bit more right. We sit in silence for a while, just gazing at each other, before a question arises out of something he’s said.

“Wait, so did we win? Did we take out the fleet?” I say.

Poe looks at me in confusion, “You don’t remember?”

I shrug, “I remember an explosion that blew out my chute, and then hitting the ground hard. The rest is black. I don’t know how I got here.”

He shakes his head in surprise and disbelief for a second. Poe then releases my hand in order to cradle my face between his palms. His face is covered in the hugest grin.

Out of instinct, I smile slightly back, “What? What is it?”

“Yeah, we took out the Exegol fleet. And the whole First Order… Kessandra, we won the war.”

I’m dumbfounded.

I open my mouth, but my lips form silent words and nothing come out. Poe continues to smile but also raises a single finger to the air, asking me to pause. I just stare back at him as he tilts his head slightly towards the door.

“Can you hear the music?” Poe whispers, and I turn my attention beyond the quiet of the med wing.

Faintly, but clearly, the song of strings and the low beating of drums can just be heard. Above them both, a muted chorus of singing, clapping, and laughter finds its way to us. In that second, it truly sinks in.

We won?

I clap a hand to my mouth and Poe excitedly nods in response.

“The war is over, Kess. We won.”

In spite of the pain that still loiters in my chest, I throw my arms around him and bury my face in his neck. He hugs me back and laughs quietly as he holds me. We sit, intertwined, as I try to understand what has happened. The thoughts keep spinning and whirling through my head as I struggle to fully comprehend what they mean. Suddenly, two things become crystal clear to me.

I don’t want to leave Poe’s side ever again.

I need to get out of this room.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Poe pulls back in order to look me in the face.

A snort slips out of his mouth, “You’re serious?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course I am. If we just won the war, then I’m not staying in this room a moment longer.”

A twinge of concern appears on Poe’s face. “Kess, you’re injured. You need to rest.”

I lightly push him back and go to push the blanket back before pausing. Subtly, I check something. Ah yes, I’m wearing pants. Good first step.

Poe places a hand on my shoulder before I can try to move again and looks at me seriously.

I place a hand over his, but don’t back down. “This is a night that will go down in history. I’m not missing it for a few cracked ribs.”

He looks close to relenting but not quite convinced, so I smile and speak softly, “I’ll be alright, Poe. You’ll pick me up if I fall, right?”

I can see the smile in his eyes, and I know that it’s going to be fine. With every passing breath, I feel a little more like myself and so, I do what comes naturally: order Poe around.

“Alright, you go find us some shoes while I get up. Also, don’t let the nurse-bots see you, you remember how that went last time we tried to sneak out.” I laugh as he sits back slightly and rolls his eyes.

Poe stands and gives a mock salute. “Yes, right away, boss.”

I watch with a smile as he disappears out the door. Slowly, I begin the process of pushing back the blankets and placing my feet on the ground. Thankfully, although my whole body is aching, only my ribs are really giving me grief. Sure, everything’s going to hurt like I’ve been run over by a tank tomorrow, but that’s not my problem right now. I lightly stretch as I better survey the extent of the damage.

“You look about ready to run a marathon,” Poe’s voice is gently mocking as he closes the door behind him.

“You know, if there was something in reach, I’d be pegging it at your head right about now.”

“If you’re dealing out threats like that, maybe I should keep the shoes.”

“Would you just shut up and get over here and help me.”

“Anything for my favourite girl.”

I roll my eyes at the endearment, but it blossoms a warm but equally longing glow inside my chest. Poe sits at the chair and gently pulls one of my feet into his lap. I stare at him in comfortable silence as he tenderly puts my shoes on. For a couple of breaths after, we sit like this with his hands resting on my calves before Poe evidently remembers our plan.

With a shake of his head, he slowly places my feet on the ground before standing. “C’mon party animal, isn’t there somewhere we’re supposed to be?”

Poe extends his hands as an anchor, which I use to pull myself to standing. I sway slightly, and quickly one of Poe’s hands goes to my hip to steady me. In one way it works, and the horizon stops moving. On the other hand, my knees feel a little bit weaker, and I might be blushing. Ignoring the heat in my cheeks, I nod my head to signal that I’m ready. Poe releases my hand and steps so that he’s standing beside me. In the process of doing this, the hand steadying me draws a caressing line across the small of my back in order to rest upon the other side of my hip. Shit, I’m definitely blushing now. I glance at Poe and see that he’s grinning back at me. He did that on purpose. Jackass. Nonetheless, the pressures of his hands are more than welcome as Poe drapes my closest arm across his shoulders.

“You comfy, Kess?” His tone is teasing.

I shake my head in joke annoyance. “Shut up, let’s go.”

[scribeofmorpheus]

As Fate Would Have It (Part 17)

Paring: WinterSoldier!Bucky x Spy!Reader

Catch Up here | Masterlist | Words: 2k |

Warnings: Themes of PTSD, brainwashing, terribly written action scene and some angst maybe?

Song: November by Mark Richter

Feel free to ask to be tagged, leave a like, reblog or comment ♥

Versailles, France

You paced about the room, trying to make sense of everything. Trying to understand how Bucky was alive. Somehow looking no different than he did in your dreams -your nightmares. Would he still be real if you dared touch him? Would he still be tangible? Whole? Flesh?

And what of the metal arm?

What of the imposing foreign object that shone like a piece of starlight, reflecting the amber licks of flame from the fireplace at you like a malicious taunt from the universe? Was that some twisted claim of re-genesis. It's joint held in place around scarred skin. A mark on his body, a permanent symbol of his rebirth. The receipt for what he’d lost. His pinkslip.

He was unconscious, arms cuffed to a radiator in your small little safe house, the fireplace keeping the biting cold at bay, though you suspected you kept shivering for a different reason altogether.

The teapot whistled over the stove, steam permeating the room in a haze filled with the scent of peppermint. After Germany, after the experiments, you had been prone to suffer panic attacks more frequently. Periods of time that would be swallowed whole, leaving you with gaps in your memory and uncontrollable shaking fits. Sal had been the first person to wrap you in a blanket and sit with you through the worse episodes. The smell of peppermint tea would always line the walls and fill your nostrils. It became a constant now. A coping mechanism.

You sat on the edge of the bed, refusing to pry your eyes away from the unconscious Bucky, even for a moment, a second. You were afraid that if you blinked, then so would he, except he would blink out of existence. A part of you ached to touch him, to caress his cheek and feel his hair twine around your fingers, but you were afraid to.

The man chained to your radiator was not the same as the cold-blooded killer you had fought before, but that didn't mean he wasn't another creature, an anachronism free from the confines of time. Maybe he wasn’t just one thing anymore. Maybe he was both killer and man.

If your prolonged life had taught you anything, it was never to poke feral creatures when you thought they were asleep. And as peaceful and docile as he looked right now, Bucky was indeed a feral creature, broken and pieced together until he didn't know who he was anymore.

"How are you real?" you spoke in an undertone, voice still raspy.

As you inhaled the steam, your mind backtracked to the moment you first found out of his demise.

***

 You walked through dozens of faceless persons perusing through the museum, reading up on the great feats of Captain America and his trusted Howling Commandos.

Being here felt like you were trespassing on hallowed ground, an uninvited vampire in a church. You kept your head low, white hair hidden beneath a baseball cap as you made your way, almost on instinct, to a particular section of the exhibition.

Passing the glass display case housing Captain America's suit, a smile tugged weakly on your lips at the humorous thought of the scrawny little Brooklyn boy you had met at the diner fitting into that six foot one monstrosity. A part of you ached to see that pure smile of his again, it never failed to lift your spirits. That was a sentiment you'd been sorely deprived of lately.

You moved onto the next exhibition, this one displaying the life and death accounts of one James Buchanan Barnes. It was like a slap across the face, reading a memorial plaque in a damned museum in place of a KIA letter that started with the obligatory 'We regret to inform you'.

You had spent hours staring at the words inscribed on the glass display, torturing yourself with what if's and could have been's.

A whimper got stuck on its way out of your throat as your eyes fogged up with salty tears, your hand reaching out to touch the last photograph taken of Bucky. You would have cried right there and then had a small kid, no older than four, bumped into you.

"Jack, so help me God, if you don't stop runnin' off every five seconds I'm gon--" The woman's familiar voice was kept from finishing her sentence as soon as she saw the side profile of your face.

You plastered on a fake smile, turning to meet the boy's mother, "Don't worry about it, everything's–"

You froze in your tracks. Delicate pearls were strung around the boy’s mother’s neck, flat curls unwinding from the summer heat, bags under her eyes. Her right hand clasped the fingers of a girl a little younger than the boy. The two of you stood there, wide eyes glued to each other as drones of people moved passed in your peripheral.

The woman looked from the scars on your arms to the few strands of white that peaked from under your cap, straining to look at you properly as if she saw a ghost.

"Elle?" She breathed out.

Horror filled her kind eyes as you nodded rigidly.

"Yes Momma?" her daughter looked up at her innocently.

The first genuine laugh shook from your chest, "Hey, Sal."

***

 A deep groan filled the empty space. Bucky was waking up. You set your teacup aside, bare feet softly trekking on the creaky wooden boards like a cautious cat. You grabbed a knife from your boot holster by the shoe rack as a precaution. As a habit.

You weren't sure who would wake up, the man or the killer.

"Where am I?" he looked around, unfamiliar with his surroundings. He tugged at his hands and noticed they were bound. Frightened, he looked up at you, lost and at war with himself, the lines on his forehead crinkling as his eyebrows crashed together. "You… You tried to kill me… I- I tried to kill you."

You took a step forward, "Bucky?"

He shivered, eyes forced shut, "N-no… I- I don't know."

You took another step and he recoiled further into the wall at the sight of your knife. You rose both your hands, setting the knife on the floor and stepping away from it.

"What's going on?" His head shook violently, he looked cold, even though sweat trailed across his face. It was like he was in withdrawal. In pain.

"Do you remember what happened?" You knelt a few meters from him.

His head snapped to the side as he took in a straggled breath. "I… had a mission. I have a mission."

"You recognised me earlier, you recognised your name: Bucky."

His head snapped the other way, "Hhhgg, no! I… that's not my- Arrrh!"

Your hand balled into a fist. God, you wanted to ease those crinkles and lines away from his beautiful face. You wanted to coax those beautiful ocean blues back from the treacherous depths of the darkened sea they had now become. But you couldn't. Not while he was in such a state.

"Maybe this will help," You pulled out a photograph from your back pocket and slid it over to him.

He peered at it through narrowed eyes, "That’s my face…and yours. We… we knew each other?"

"Yes," you sighed in relief. "We did."

"These other faces," his gaze landed on Steve. "Who are they?" He looked up at you now, a deep-seated melancholy pulling at his features. "Who am I?"

You inched a little bit closer to him, and when he didn't try to back away, you decided to move even further. "You are… James Buchanan Barnes. Your best friend was named Steve. You were a hero, the both of you."

"A hero..." he didn't believe the sentiment but you noticed his muscles unclench, "And how do we know each other?"

"We were… close, once. You knew as Elle. I worked at a diner you frequented."

"Elle..." His focus was drawn to your hair, "White. Snow. White snow in the mountains," he mumbled before grasping his head in his hands as he whined agony. "The rabbit…the rabbit got away… Into the forest. Into the dark. So dark… Failure to complete. Failure to complete. Spiders, spiders everywhere. Screaming. Make it stop! Make it stop!"

He was shaking violently now and you placed your hands on his biceps, trying to steady him. "What did they do to you Buck?" you mourned for the man who was no more, for the Bucky that was stripped down to this skeletal version of his old self.

"Red. Yellow. Hissing. So much hissing. The metal screams. It burns like fire. Like needles in my brain. They all scream. Make them stop!" His voice cracked.

"I'm right here, Buck. I won't leave your side. I promise," you smoothed your hands through his hair as tears began to well in your eyes. "Not again. Not ever again. You'll be okay."

He leaned into you, all his weight crushing your sternum, his shaking vibrating through you like seismic quakes. He whimpered like a kicked dog, eyes shut so tight you thought he was trying to will his sight away. The icy temperature of his metal arm felt warmer than his cries. Hands grabbing at his ears to block out the phantoms in his brain.

"Make them stop..." he cried, bottom lip trembling like a child’s.

You placed your forehead to his, feeling utterly helpless, "I don't know how."

After his shaking subsided, you found that now it was your hands that were shaking. You exhaled sharply, running them through your hair as you tried to calm yourself. Seeing him like this broke something in you and it felt like the walls were caving in. Choking you. Burying you alive. You rubbed your neck, remembering how it felt to be deprived of oxygen. You much rather preferred that to this emotional torture.

You stood, waving the tension from your fingertips away, heart beating like you’d run a marathon.

"Please..." he begged when you left his side. “Please don't go. The voices. Don't leave me alone with them. I don't want to see their faces."

Your teeth chattered, a quiver mangling with choked back tears of your own. Everything was so… overwhelming. And no matter how closed in you felt, you couldn't leave him to suffer alone. After all, wasn't it your fault he was remembering?

Maybe it would have been easier on us both if he had killed me, you thought.

"I promised I wouldn't leave you," you reminded him.

He was staring at the photograph again. "Tell me more. Your voice. It blocks them out."

You blinked rapidly, trying to dry out your eyes, "What do you want to know?"

"Did… did I have a family?"

A twinkle crossed your lips, "A big one from one I gathered." You returned to his side, sitting beside him so your shoulders touched and your head rested on the wall. "I never met them, but I know you had sisters. Maybe four. After the war… I looked for traces of you. I found a marriage certificate belonging to one of them. Her name was Lottie I think. She married a former air force pilot. They have a son. Named him James…" you turned to look at him, dark hair blocking his face. "After his uncle."

He leaned back, a frown growing, then he let out a frustrated sigh, "I don't remember her."

You decided to continue talking, it seemed to help him. "I found records of your mother too. Winnifred Barnes. Wife of George Barnes. She was a combat nurse during the war. When it was over, she volunteered with the Red Cross. She died a little over ten years ago, I think… Contracted some form of viral infection. Never shook it off."

Bucky shook his head, banging it against the wall, "I… I don't-"

You placed your hand on his metal arm, twitching when you remembered it being wrapped around your neck –which was now healing from the purple marks it left behind.

"It's okay," you smiled.

"Who is he?" he asked, pointing at the photograph.

You chuckled fondly, "That's Steve. In many ways, he was a part of your family too. He'd always get into trouble. A heart of gold, but not the best self-preservation instincts. One in a million. I'd never thought people like him still existed in this world."

Bucky swallowed loudly, "Is he...?"

"Yeah, he died too. He saved millions of lives in the process. It was a noble end."

“When… when was this photo taken?”

You chewed at your inner cheek, “A few years after world war two started.”

"Why do I look the same?" He turned his head to face you, panic peeling up his eyelids. "Why do you?"

"I… I-" you ground your molars together. You wanted to know the answers to those questions too.

Suddenly, a loud banging emanated from your door. Bucky returned to looking like a trapped animal, wiry eyes staring at the door. You held up a hand.

"Relax, I'll go see who it is."

You picked up the knife from the table and walked to the door, peering out through the peephole.

"Shit," you swore as you holstered your weapon. "Go away, Alexei!"

"You didn't check-in. The company sent me to look for you. I heard about the attempt on your mark." His thick Russian lilt coated his gruff voice.

"I'm fine Alexei, I just needed to lay low."

Bucky's spine curved as he curled into a ball, more indistinguishable mumbles breaking out as he spoke in tongues. You turned to him, worried.

"Who's that?" Alexei demanded, hearing the incomprehensible mutterings of a mentally crippled man.

"Nobody, Alexei. Go back. You found me, confirmed I’m well, mission accomplished."

"They'll come looking for me..." Bucky warned you as he watched a lizard crawl up the wall, its tail curled at the end.

"Who will?" you whispered.

"I don't know… but I don't think we want to find out."

"Y/N, let me in before I start kicking down doors!"

"Alexei, no!"

"You've got until I reach twenty," he warned.

You couldn't know what would happen if Alexei saw Bucky. He was still in the same clothes he wore when he tried to assassinate your mark –when he tried to kill you. There was a high chance Alexei would be able to tell Bucky was the assassin from earlier, or at the very least be able to make an educated guess. And as much as you trusted your partner, you knew he wasn't one for placing brains over brawn.

Alexei started counting down and you paced about, trying to figure out a way through this mess.

Bucky had gone limp, chin pointed high as he kept an eye on the lizard's tail.

"Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen..."

Bucky's entire body froze, his hands balling into fists. Then he muttered a single word, "Semnadtsat’."

"Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen..."

Bucky broke the restraints easily, standing off the ground in a measured motion, his shoulders squared like a soldiers. The scared, shaking, lost boy was no more. And when his eyes found to yours, they were darker than the night. Instantly, you knew he wasn't Bucky anymore and you felt him slip through your fingers all over again.

You gasped and reached for your knife just when Alexei broke the door down. The soldier attacked the big Russian man. His metal arm cracking and knocking at bones and vital organs. Alexei wasn't averse to a good fight, in fact, he'd been honed into the perfect soldier a bottle could cultivate, but he still wasn’t a match for such unbridled rage. Alexei retaliated, his punches slow but heavy.

You watched from the side-lines, unsure of how to proceed.

"Bucky, stop!" You shouted between the sounds of metal crashing into flesh and flesh hooking into flesh.

He kicked Alexei into the wall, a crack dusting up cement and then he turned to you, but for some reason, he didn't attack. He just stood there, a menacing wraith like before, except with a pang of sadness to him that he didn't have the first time. Then he stormed out of the room.

You let yourself breathe again, dropping the knife you had braced in a defensive stance as you rushed to Alexei's side. The photograph missing from the floor.

"You big brute, you should have listened to me," you wiped the blood from his mouth with trembling fingers.

Alexei groaned, his hand on his sides as he tried and failed to sit up, "Stop him."

It hit you then, why he never bothered to kill either you or Alexei. It was because you weren't the target. You weren't the mission.

 When you arrived at the building where your mark was being guarded, you were greeted by flames. And Bucky was gone. Again.

Your breathing hitched, quick shallow breaths flaring at your nostrils as you were dragged into a state of panic. Your fingernails scraped at your scalp as you bit your tongue so hard a droplet of blood fell onto the pavement.

I failed you once, James Buchanan Barnes. I won't a second time. Mark my words, I will find you. We will cross paths again… Winter Soldier.

 ***

The Winter Soldier had completed his mission, his target was dead. The Major opened his red book and the mechanical hiss of the machine attached to the chair screeched through the hollow room. A flash of light seared through his ocular nerve. His hands gripped onto the armrests.

Sticking out between from a pouch in his armoured vest was the curled end of a black and white photograph.

A single phrase worming its way out of his subconscious.

"My safe harbour..." he whispered as they wiped his memory clean.

 To be continued...

Tags: @fangirl-colo @dormousse @smallmarvel @ren-ni @sargentbucket @nikolett3 @wnygirl2012 @jentismyname @evilgeniuslabz-blog @myrabbitholetoneverland @sleepingspacedragon @500daysofbecky @reidreader  

Permatags: @gruffle1 @thechickvic @notawarriorjustyet @savethehoneeybees

Adding counterpart tags too (lmk if this isn’t something you’re interested in): @ladybugsfanfics @ninaminaromina @xstevenat

[sabraeal]

If it ain't too late: ObiYuki, REMEMBER ME (childhood headcanons, much?)

Set after Tanbarun Arc; directly references events in this fic.

Wide Florida Bay | Previous

The door rattles open, panels clinking like the world’s cheapest garage door, and –

And this must be what people opening tombs feel like, because, damn, that is some stale air.

“Climate controlled my ass,” Obi coughs as he steps inside. “How long ago did you last open this thing?”

Doc hesitates. “Three months ago.”

“Well, it feels like –” the words shrivel on his tongue as he glances back at her, every line of her rigid and hunched, like a deer that knows it’s about to get mowed down by an eighteen-wheeler – “we’re about to invoke a mummy’s curse.”

Cool, great. Real sensitive. Just missing his Miss Congeniality award for that one. God, he should just stick to what he’s good at – lifting things and shutting up.

Okay, well, he probably needs to get better on that last one, but – whatever.

“Well…” Her voice is muffled behind the cowl of his hoodie, and that’s �� that’s also a problem. A bigger one now, but it’s not anything he can solve. Not without fucking up their relationship, and her and Chief’s relationship, and his and Chief’s relationship, and probably just – everyone he’s every known or come to care about in the last three months.

Take home: keep it in your fucking pants, Obi.

She huffs, ducking further underneath the fabric. “There are, you know, remains in here.”

He bobbles the box he’s holding. What.

“There’s what?”

“That’s, um…” She coughs, pink peeking over the cowl. “That’s sort of what I’m here for.”

He can do this. He can play it cool. This is definitely not the first time he’s been in the room with a dead person. Probably. “Oh. Great!”

“I mean, it’s just – just my grandfathers ashes!” she’s quick to clarify. “And my – my grandmother’s. I just…I didn’t know what to do with them after – after everything. So I thought I’d just…keep them here. Until I do.”

“Oh.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, enthusiasm for this whole clean-out thing waning sharply. Not that he’s not going to do it – god, he’s too stupid for her not to – but you’re supposed to talk about the skeletons in your closet before you ask your friends to help you clean it. “So you…know what you’re doing now?”

“No,” she admits softly, shoulders rounding. “But it doesn’t feel right to leave them here. Not when I’m not really sure….”

If I’ll ever come back. She doesn’t need to say the words, not when every line of them is written on her face.

“Right,” he says, turning back to the mess. “So, what are we looking for? Urns? Decorative vases? Sand art? Shoe boxes? Give me some help here, Doc.”

“Um.” If anything, she turns more red. “A peanut butter jar.”

That holds him up. “A what?”

“Not like – not jiffy or anything!”

“Of course not, Doc,” he grumbles, picking up a stack of shoe boxes. “Only the freshest, most cruelty-free peanut butter jar for Pops, sure.”

“No, I mean –” Her hands fist on her hips, cheeks blown out. He really needs to stop finding that so cute. “It’s a tin. A – an antique. My grandfather never wanted us to spend money on him, and would say, just cremate me and bury me in a peanut butter tin, that’s all I need.” Her shoulders hunch. “I didn’t – I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Hey.” He doesn’t know he’s reaching for until cotton’s already under his palm, until he feels the birdlike brittleness of bone under his fingers. She really needs to eat more. “You did your best. That’s all you can do.”

She looks up at him, eyes watery, and nods.

“Right.” He gives her a squeeze before he lets go, because he’s a glutton for punishment. “Peanut butter tin. And your grandma?”

“An – an urn? It’s nice.” Her hands flutter, flustered, at the stack of cardboard. “I think I put it in the same box?”

“Cool.” He nods. “Let’s get started.”

“Oh!”

He cranes his head up, blinking away the dust swirling in the air. “What’s up, did you find them?”

“No,” she says, frozen over a shoe box. “I just – I didn’t realize I had packed these away.”

He gets up, knees creaking. God, he’s really getting out of shape with all this fat living at the frat. “What is it?”

“My sand dollar collection.”

She barely glances up at him as he steps up beside her, just leans back. Her shoulder brushes against his sternum, and over the must of the unit, he can smell the lavender of her shampoo. Oh, he is just – in trouble. With all this.

“We lived an hour and half from the ocean in any direction,” Doc tells him, sand dollars clinking as she shuffles through the box. “So we never got to go to them that often. But when we did, we’d always find a sand dollar and bring it back. Like a lucky charm.”

She pulls one out – small, the side of the center of her palm – and he – he –

He can’t breathe.

“This one’s from Virginia Beach,” she says, distantly. “Isn’t that where you said you were from?”

Fuck. Fuck.

Doc looks up at him, smiling, and – and –

He knows her.

He’s nine. Obi remembers that, if not a lot else. Nine is when his whole world fell apart.

It’s complicated when your mom dies. There’s – feelings, and funerals, and well-wishers, and –

And it’s even worse when you’re a kid, and it’s your last lifeline out of foster care.

He’d known she wouldn’t get better; at the age of six he’d already learned words it would take a lifetime for other people to understand – chemo, radiation, overdue, metastasize, fatal, palliative, opiate – but still, still –

He was young enough to believe in miracles. To maybe even believe in a dad that showed up at the eleventh hour, with soup and sandwiches and clean clothes, that said the magic words, I’ve been looking for you.

It was so much easier to hope for a fairy tale, to hope that maybe he was Rapunzel and his mom was an evil witch, raising him in a tower. That one day someone would come and say – and say –

“Do you mind moving over?”

He blinks, staring into the biggest, greenest eyes he’s ever seen. “What.”

“You’re taking up the bench,” the girl pipes. For one, ridiculous moment, he thinks she looks like a muppet – tiny, pink, with a bobbed haystack of unbelievable red for hair, eyes taking up half her face. Like Zoe, or maybe Prairie Dawn, just – red. “I just wanna sit down.”

“Oh.” He cranes his neck around, looking at all the other empty benches, and just – scooches. “Sure.”

She beams up at him, so bright he almost needs to squint to look at her. Instead, he looks away. “Thanks! Did you get lost too?”

That makes him stare at her, this tiny thing with knobby knees and freckles just…everywhere. He’s not really good at guessing ages, but she can’t be over five. Six, at most. “Something like that.”

It takes him a good minute to realize she’s waiting for him to clarify, that this is her bid for conversation.

He jerks his head across the street. “You see that building over there?”

She squints. “Uh-huh. It’s big.”

“Right.” He’d thought that too, when he’d first saw it. It wasn’t a big skyscraper, not like some of the other ones that surround it, but – it’s got that feeling of bigness. Of being a place where people have their lives decided. “Well, the grown-ups in there are trying to decide what to do with me. And apparently it’s not good for me to know, so I’m out here.”

“Ohhh.” She nods sagely. “Did your momma die too?”

He mouth works, and the only thing that comes out is, “Too?”

She nods. “My momma died a while ago. And they couldn’t find Daddy, and I had to go stay with some people for a few weeks.”

He licks his lips, hands clenched on his lap. “Well, I’ve been with some different people for a few years. All over the place. I’m used to it.”

The girl nods, like there’s no difference. “I didn’t like it. They were nice, but I wanted my momma. And then my grandparents came!”

“You knew them, though?” he says, adrift. It’s like he’s in some alternate reality where, like, the Power Rangers are in the ocean instead of in space, and adorable muppet-girls just pop out of nowhere in parks.  “Your grandparents?”

She shook her head. “They said they’d seen me when I was little, but I didn’t remember them. Not really.”

“That must have been scary,” he offers, not sure why. She’s just so tiny.

“A little,” she admits. “But I’m happy now! We went to the beach yesterday!”

“Oh,” he manages. “Wow.”

“Yeah, we always find sand dollars, and I collect them!” She digs into her pockets, pulling out tan little discs. “I found two this time!” She shoots him a shy look from the corner of her eyes. “Would you like one?”

“Oh!” The girl holds one out, expectant. “No, I would just – I’d break it.”

“It’s fine,” she tells him. “It’s for you. You can break it if it’s yours.”

His hand shakes as he takes it. Something happens in his chest too, but it aches, and he doesn’t want to think about it. “Thanks.”

“Now we both have one from Virginia Beach!” She leans in with a grin. “I bet that means something good will happen to us there!”

He laughs. “I’m not –”

“Shirayuki?” a voice calls frantically. “Shirayuki!”

She grimaces. “I better get going. Good luck!”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, watching her scamper off to an older couple. Her grandparents, probably. They look relieved to see her, worried too, and –

Loving.

His hand grips the dollar hard, its edges cutting into his fingers. “I’ll need it.”

“Obi?” Doc’s hand brushes his, startling him. He can still feel the sand dollar in his hand, fingers aching where it had dug in. He knows her. He knows her. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah!” he coughs, turning so he can’t – can’t look at her. Doesn’t give away everything with his dumb face. “I’m just – I’m good. Let’s keep looking.”

[theolddarkmachine]

12 Days of ODM: Day 9

Dedicated to: @whereisthefood123

Prompt: Levy gives Gajeel his first headband.

AO3

                                               I hope you like it.

Truth be told, Gajeel had loved the thin slip of crimson fabric Levy had given him that morning right before she slipped out to head to the guild for the day. He loved the silky feel of it against the roughened, callused palms, and he loved the raised stitching that created a zig zagging pattern across the band. Gajeel especially loved that it was damn near identical to the yellow headband Levy was partial to, the fabric a permanent fixture holding back her bangs and allowing the delicate planes of her face to catch the light.

The problem was, though he loved the piece of silk, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do with it.

WTF, you won the award for most obscure prompt lol I’m not gonna lie, when I got your message of “Can I ask for a prompt of ‘headband’” I was like I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I’M GONNA MAKE THIS WORTHY OF WTF. But after a minor panic, I freaking love this prompt. I also love that it gave me the opportunity to use a bunch of my pretty downloaded fonts :3 I hope you like it! Merry Christmas!

************************

                                              I hope you like it.

Truth be told, Gajeel had loved the thin slip of crimson fabric Levy had given him that morning right before she slipped out to head to the guild for the day. He loved the silky feel of it against the roughened, callused palms, and he loved the raised stitching that created a zig zagging pattern across the band. Gajeel especially loved that it was damn near identical to the yellow headband Levy was partial to, the fabric a permanent fixture holding back her bangs and allowing the delicate planes of her face to catch the light.

The problem was, though he loved the piece of silk, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do with it.

The dragon slayer was a simple man. All he needed for his hair was shampoo, conditioner when he felt like treating himself, and the open air that would dry it. Tying it back with a headband had never been anything he’d ever considered, especially given he wasn’t even sure how to get it on over the wild mess to begin with.

Which, was how he’d ended up in their bathroom for the better part of an hour trying to work the  over the unruly black locks, and only managing to get it around his forehead, the hair beneath it pushed upward into a shape that resembled something more like a deflated mushroom. An angry growl ripped from behind his teeth as he tugged the headband off and threw it at the mirror where it smacked right in the middle of his reflection before falling behind the faucet.

“God damn headband,” he moaned as he turned on his heel, walking out of the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him to further punctuate just how angry he was with the fabric for not cooperating with him. The clap of the door was deafening in the otherwise quiet home, the movement so violent that it shook the walls an shook the bookcase just to the right of the door, effectively knocking two books from their shelves. They fell with all the grace of a baby bird, soft thuds accompanying the inevitable crash as they hit the carpeted ground.

“God damn books,” Gajeel snarled as he leant down to pick them up, his annoyance spiking as it searched for anything else to focus on besides his failure to use Levy’s gift.

It really shouldn’t be this hard, he thought moodily as he scooped up the leather bound tomes that had fallen.

Band. Hair. Make Levy happy.

The steps were obvious, which only made it that much more annoying that he couldn’t seem to get the damn thing onto his head. He groaned again as he turned towards the bookshelf where the line of carefully placed books had fallen over without the help of their companions to keep them up. Much like with everything else she did, Levy had lovingly organized the texts on the shelves, using a system that only seemed to make perfect sense to her.

Gajeel had suspected what the dull throb growing behind his sternum had been, but it hadn’t been until he’d watched her as she stood in front of the wooden bookcase, a book in each hand and a small thoughtful smile on her pink lips as she pushed each onto specific slots on the shelves, that he confirmed it.

Love.

They’d only known each other for a year at that point, dating for just four, when he’d offered his place when she’d finally decided she couldn’t handle living with their guild mates anymore.

         It will be convenient. Plus, we get along just fine, don’t we, Shrimp?

Since then, and since his revelation, Gajeel had kept the four letter word held close to his heart and trapped behind his teeth. It wasn’t that he doubted Levy’s feelings for him. His own reasons rested solely in the hands of his own abandonment issues. Everyone he’d ever loved left.

If he kept that to himself, then she couldn’t disappear as well.

Sighing loudly, Gajeel shook the stray thoughts from his mind as he looked over the shelf, trying desperately to pull the location for both books from the grain of the wood. It was as he searched the shelf for answers, something tucked behind the books caught his eye.

Sitting pressed into the furthest corner of the shelf, was a small square box made of cherry oak wood that he had never seen before. A zing of curiosity shot down to his fingertips, sending a tickle through the pads as he set the fallen books onto the next ledge up before reaching over the top of the books to grab it. The wood had been sanded to an almost velvet softness with vines and flowers carved into delicate patterns over the lid.

It had been beautifully crafted, the care in its making obvious with how fine the details were of the blossoms that folded lovingly as if they were truly alive. His fingers ghosted over the design, smoothing over the lines before they dragged a line down to the golden clasp that held the lid shut.

A small voice in his head admonished him for being nosey. Levy had clearly hidden the box for a reason. If he was a stronger man, he’d put it back where he’d found it, replace the books, and pretend he hadn’t ever seen the hidden box behind all of Levy’s favorite books.

He wasn’t a stronger man though, his hand moving to push the box open before he’d even realized he’d decided to open it. The lid lifted easily as the hinges gave a soft squeak from age, revealing a card on yellowing paper with cursive words painted over it in plum ink that simply said:

Carefully, Gajeel pulled the card from the box, his touch light as he pinched it between his thumb and forefingers. Setting down the box on top of the toppled books, he used his freed hand to open the folded paper, eyes scanning over the note on the inside.

His heart lurched in his chest, a seed of sorrow nestling deep in his gut as he read the words. Levy had mentioned once in passing that her parents had both died when she was young, leaving her to be raised by the guild, but she never got much further than that, and he never pushed her for details. Gajeel understood the kind of scar tissue that got left behind by the loss of family. He recognized the faraway look and the hollow tone she adopted the one time they’d been brought up, his own darkness reflecting back at him in the golden honey of her eyes.

Tearing his eyes from the slightly smudged ink of the card, he looked back at the box to see a photo resting at the bottom beside a single piece of folded yellow fabric. Gently placing the card on the shelf, Gajeel turned his attentions back to the picture, pulling it from the wood.

The photo showed a tall, blue haired man standing with his arm around a blonde woman who had a child balanced on her hip. She couldn’t have been more than five years old in the photo, sky blue hair sticking out in every which way with a single band of yellow holding her bangs out of her face as she smiled up at the parents that beamed brightly at the camera.

Levy’s family. Their happiness radiated from the photograph, captured forever within the card stock. Though she shared the same coloring as her father, she favored her mother. The woman’s smile was identical to the one he’d memorized, full of light and pulled just barely higher on the right side. He felt his heart squeeze as his gaze traced over the photo, matching the goldenrod in Levy’s hair to that of the fabric in the box.

He didn’t need to pull the silk from its wooden confines to know that it would be the same headband from the picture. Similar to the one that always rested in Levy’s sky colored locks, it must have been one of the last things she ever got from her parents before they died. A final, tangible piece of her parents’ love, tucked away with her books in the one place she could always keep it safe.

The sudden understanding of it all stole the breath from his lungs as he carefully tucked the photo and card back into the box.

I hope you like it.

Without his knowing, Levy had given him her love, wholly and completely sewn into the crimson fabric of the headband.

After setting the box back behind the books, he replaced the fallen texts on the shelf, effectively hiding her past away again before he turned back to the bathroom, a new resolve coursing through him as he grabbed the fabric from where it sat on the sink.

***

Levy was lost deep within the curling script of the foreign language, oblivious to the rest of the guild around her as she tried to work out the translation of a particularly tricky sentence, when a solid body dropped down into the bench next to her. Fire erupted deep in her stomach as a strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her into a broad chest as a nose nuzzled into the hair behind her hair. She felt the featherlight touch of lips against her skin, just below the silk of her headband. The contact pulled a low purr from her throat as she pushed into the touch.

“Hey Gajeel,” she hummed, eyes still fixed on the words before her though her attention rested solely on the warmth of her boyfriend’s body.

“Hi, Lev,” he replied, the coolness of his breath raising goosebumps over her skin as it stirred the hair around her ear. “How’s it going?”

If Levy was being honest, it wasn’t going well. She couldn’t remember the last time a translation job had made her work so hard to find the answers. The challenge had been welcomed, but admittedly, her mind had been left behind with Gajeel and the headband she’d given him that morning. Though they’d been together for half a year now, she’d never felt as nervous with him as she had that morning handing him the simple gift for his birthday. He had no way of knowing just how much the circle of fabric meant to her, or how it was the easiest way she could think of to finally tell him the depth of her feelings for him, but she knew. That very knowledge had kept her mind a mile away, stuck in their house and hidden behind a shelf of books.

“It could be going better,” she admitted, sighing loudly as she slumped into his side. “It’s kicking my ass, actually.”

Gajeel’s quiet laughter vibrated through her as he kissed her again, this time pressing his lips to the top of the headband in her hair. He breathed in as he hummed before pulling away.

“So why don’t you take a break?” His voice was so deep and inviting, her own personal kryptonite that she couldn’t deny, no matter how badly she wished to prove she could figure out the text.

Well, it was just a break anyway.

Finally looking away from the book, Levy turned to face Gajeel, a small squeak of surprise escaping her as she took in his appearance. Stretched over his black hair, was the headband she’d given to him that morning. The crimson silk stood out against the onyx, its color almost the same garnet shade of his eyes as he smiled down at her.

“You’re wearing it.” Reaching up with a tentative hand, her fingers brushing over the fabric and the soft waves of Gajeel’s hair. Her dragon turned his nose into her wrist, his lips brushing over her pulse that ricocheted in her veins at the contact.

“Of course I am,” he said matter-of-factly, as if his wearing it had been as obvious as the sky being blue.

“I wasn’t sure you’d like it,” she said lowly as she dropped her hand into her lap. They both ignored the way her words wobbled slightly as she spoke, their endings watery. Gajeel’s arm tightened around her waist as he spoke.

“I love it.” His eyes danced with light as they searched her hazel ones, his lips quirking upwards as he chose his next words.

“I love you, Levy.”

Her heart paused in her chest before it began to race as the words began to spiral around her, wrapping her in their warm embrace as she rolled them around her mind.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Gajeel’s lips were pliant beneath hers as Levy surged forward, pressing their lips together, her arms anchoring her to him as they wrapped around his neck. Electricity buzzed down to her toes as he returned the pressure in the otherwise chaste kiss. Pulling away slightly, she rested her forehead against his, the fabric of the silk band soft against her skin.

“I love you too,” she whispered, barely getting the words out before Gajeel chased them away with another kiss, filled with nothing but an unsaid promise that was sweet on her tongue. Smiling into it, he pushed into it before pulling away, his eyes smoldering as he looked at her.

“Want to get out of here, Shrimp?”

All Levy could manage was a quick nod, her words lost to the continual hum of three other words.

I love you.

***